


one hand in hers and another on her waist

by goldbooksblack



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Ball, F/M, Ravka, zoya feels some things she's unprepared for, zoyalai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 21:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack
Summary: The Lantsov Pretender is a far cry from what Zoya had expected.





	one hand in hers and another on her waist

She is not used to having the lifethread of her country so close to being cut. 

Or to having the reason so close to her face. 

“You are lovely, General Nazyalensky,” Vadik Demidov murmurs as they spin around the room. Zoya resists the urge to crush his fingers in her grip. She offers a grunt instead. 

She had already felt naked when she walked into the ballroom, a sapphire evening gown on and her kefta nowhere to be seen. Zoya had stifled a shiver, goosebumps rising on skin that would otherwise not be seen, especially in the freezing death of winter. The palace had already been heated with the help of the Inferni, so there was no excuse to run for her kefta to provide warmth. 

Genya had let out what Zoya guessed was supposed to be a cat’s yeowl when she’d seen the Squaller. “You clean up nicely.”

“It’s not as if you haven’t seen me out of my kefta before.”

“Yes, yes, but all those times in the past, you looked like even more of a peasant without your kefta. Now you look presentable.”

“Thank you,” Zoya had muttered sourly. She lowered her voice. “Anything new?”

Genya took a small cake the size of her thumb from a nearby platter. “Not for now. None of the dignitaries show signs of even trying to mingle with each other. They’ve all coalesced around Nikolai. He’s been occupied since he greeted them.”

“And the Pretender?” Zoya hadn’t even noticed that she’d clenched her teeth until she had to relax her jaw. “What about him?” It hadn’t been her idea to invite the entirety of the Fjerdan usurper party to the ball. No, that was one of the genius ideas of the idiot that currently sat on the throne.

“He and Nikolai have exchanged words, but other than that . . .” Genya’s voice faltered. “Zoya, he’s coming over here.”

“What?” Zoya had snarled and turned. Indeed, Demidov had been rapidly advancing towards them, his long limbs taking no more than a few strides before he was planted firmly before Zoya. 

Zoya stared at him. If this had been Fjerda, she would have sunk into a deep curtsy and batted her eyelashes and probably simpered in deference. Unfortunately for Demidov, Ravka was not Fjerda. 

Not yet.

And if Zoya had a say,  _ never. _

To his credit, Demidov had not registered any surprise on his face. Instead, he bowed deeply. “Lady Genya. General Nazyalensky.”

Genya nodded to him, then took a bite of her cake. A tiny bite of a cake that should have been swallowed whole. She chewed slowly, no more words coming out of her mouth. Zoya cursed her in her mind. 

Demidov had held out a hand. “May I have this dance, General?”

Zoya had felt the searing question from her triumvir as she stood in Genya’s line of sight. Her first instinct had been to bat the Pretender’s hand away and storm out. Instead, some basal instinct inside of her drove her hand forward.

Now, she meets Demidov’s eyes. “And you are trying to destroy my country. Lord Demidov,” she adds smoothly.

Demidov’s laugh is loud enough that a couple nearby stops waltzing to stare. “You are as cutting as they say you are. And please, it’s just Vadik.” 

She had expected the Pretender to be a scrawny Fjerdan boy from nowhere, propped up by Magnus Opjer’s money. Not this man with one hand in hers and another on her waist. Tall and graceful and as lovely as her. The triumvirate had spent the entire week agonizing over how to keep everyone from seeing Nikolai and Opjer together. 

They hadn’t planned for Vadik Demidov.

Zoya hears the last swell of the strings and takes the opportunity to step back from Demidov. “Lord Demidov,” she says curtly. Her skirts flare as she turns. 

“Wait!” Demidov calls. “General Nazyalensky.”

Zoya halts. She wants so badly to walk away, ignore him, return to Genya where she can stuff her face with cake and forget about all of the problems staring her in the face. Instead, she lets out a deep breath before turning. “Lord Demidov.”

“Vadik,” he corrects. Offering her a smile. “General Nazyalensky, are you a . . . religious person?”

She thinks of the disappeared, schming Apparat, of the creature that sees all with quartz gray eyes currently locked in the dungeon. She thinks of the dragon that burns inside her. “No.”

“What makes you believe Nikolai Lantsov your king, then?”

“He is the son of Alexander the Third, who himself was the son of Alexander the Second, who himself was the son of Alexander the First, who himself was—”

“—I understand,” says Demidov, with that same infernal laugh. “And they are all descendants of the first king, who received the blessing of the firebird. But, General Nazyalensky—” he leans forward, close enough that Zoya can feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. “How can you hate me if we both know that your king is nothing more than the product of a dalliance?” He rocks back on his feet. “History does not often give us the chance to fix its mistakes.” 

Zoya clenches and unclenches her fists, watching him stride away. 

~*~

At the side of the room, surrounded by foes with forked tongues and sugared words, the king of Ravka watches his general stare after the man trying to topple his throne.

She never turns to look at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!


End file.
